


when prayer doesn't work: dance, fly, fire

by Stairre



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Aftercare, Background civil war aftermath, Denial of Feelings, Dom/sub, Don't copy to another site, It turns out just fine but I'm tagging it to be safe, M/M, Overstimulation, Past Dream Sex, Porn with Feelings, Post-Transformers: Lost Light 25, Requited Unrequited Love, Rough Sex, Size Difference, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Tactile Sexual Interfacing, Transformers Plug and Play Sexual Interfacing, Under-negotiated Kink, Yes it is a combo of all three
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-01
Updated: 2020-09-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:54:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25990072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stairre/pseuds/Stairre
Summary: In another world, Optimus Prime joins theLost Lightpost-Unicron, and he and Megatron finally sort out their unresolved romantic tension. That would be great, Rodimus thinks, if not for the way he's been in love with both of them for longer than he's willing to admit.---Or: Megatron and Optimus are each two ends of a four million year pan-galactic civil war. Are yousureyou want to get between them?
Relationships: Megatron/Optimus Prime/Rodimus | Rodimus Prime
Comments: 17
Kudos: 108
Collections: Favorite Bookmarks 1





	when prayer doesn't work: dance, fly, fire

**when prayer doesn’t work: dance, fly, fire**

–

Optimus Prime turning up alive nineteen days after he threw himself into the black hole in the heart of Unicron – thereby saving them all, somehow – isn’t as much of a shock as it probably should be. The guy’s kinda like an Earthen cockroach like that; every time someone stomps him down, he springs right back up, a disappointed hum in his EM field and a frown beneath his battle mask.

So. Yeah. Optimus Prime is back, taking one look at the trial the Galactic Council is overseeing, and bringing his full weight to bear upon the proceedings.

Rodimus honestly isn’t sure what to think; yeah, he wants Megatron to have a _fair_ trial, which, considering the horrendous anti-mechanical prejudice of the Galactic Council looked to be a long shot, and, yeah, he kinda feels that with as long as Cybertronians live, reparative justice far exceeds punitive justice, and, _yeah,_ call him biased (which is admittedly probably true), but he does want Megatron to live and be able to make amends…

Anyway. The whole situation is a mess from start to finish, as it always was. Somehow – and Rodimus isn’t even entirely sure exactly _how_ even if he was a massive part of it, ‘cause sheer exhaustion and stress have left his memory files in a disorganised, incomplete state – Optimus (and Rodimus, and Minimus) manage to swing for Megatron being sentenced to eight million years of relief work and reconstruction efforts throughout the known galaxies, to counter the four million years he spent wrecking them.

Rodimus walks out of the court chambers, cycles in and out a few deep vents to try and control his jittering, and makes his way numbly back to the _Lost Light,_ which, by the way, has _not_ been decommissioned because Optimus told Prowl to buzz off and go find the heavy-duty generators that power New Cybertron’s Primus-mode and use them instead to help bring the new-sparks on Luna-1 online. Great. Another thing Rodimus owes Optimus.

No, but seriously. It’s been a stressful few weeks. Rodimus goes back to his hab suite in a daze, collapses on his berth, and drops into recharge so fast he doesn’t even finish seeing the lights in his quarters dim down all the way before he can’t see anything at all.

–

A month later, Optimus Prime owns the hab suite in the _Lost Light’s_ officer corridor that is directly opposite Megatron’s and they’re off on their way to aid in disaster relief the next system over. Megatron’s not even an official officer anymore (even if he does still do a lot of technically-an-officer’s-paperwork) – as per the conditions handed down as part of his sentence – but to move him out of the more isolated officer deck and leave him amongst the crew seemed a recipe for disaster so he’s in that hab suite to stay.

Rodimus is back to being the sole captain of the _Lost Light._ He even got Minimus and Drift to agree to being his second and third in command again, though he’s sure that he didn’t actually have much of a choice in the matter, the way he got cornered the day after the sentence was handed down. Ratchet’s back being the CMO, as First Aid’s left to go head a hospital back on New Cybertron, and Optimus is, of all things, their quartermaster. No, Rodimus doesn’t know why he’s happy being their requisitions guy, instead of, like, head of security or something either, but if it means Rodimus is still captain, then he’s not going to question it.

And he definitely doesn’t question it when he sees either Optimus or Megatron slipping into each other’s hab suites on a semi-regular basis. Nope, no sir, Rodimus didn’t see a thing. And he definitely didn’t _hear_ a thing either.

(Why does Rodimus’ hab have to share a wall with Megatron’s hab? _Why?_ He doesn’t want to hear their, er – _diplomatic relations._ Yeah. That’s the phrase Rodimus is going to use. _Friendly diplomatic relations._ It’s only expected after four million years for them to be – intense. Obviously.

And it’s not like he can take shelter with Drift, either! Unless he wants to see more of Ratchet than he’s comfortable seeing. Don’t get Rodimus wrong, he likes the mech, but there are some things the Party Ambulance can do that even Rodimus’ optics are still too innocent for.)

And that’s the way the first few months go. Rodimus politely averts his optics from either Optimus or Megatron’s face if they ended up in Megatron’s hab the previous night, Optimus and Megatron politely avert their optics from Rodimus’ face if they ended up in Megatron’s hab the previous night, and basically there’s a whole lot of _not-talking-about-it._ Nope. Who needs words, anyway? Haha. Ha.

Okay, but really. This is getting out of hand. Half of the ship’s upper command apparently can’t even look at each other half the time, and people are starting to notice.

“Is everything all right?” Drift asks quietly one day, hanging back in the meeting room. The door has just slid shut on Optimus’ back, Ratchet gone ahead of him to get back to someone he’s overseeing in the med-bay, and even Minimus is staring concerned from the other side of the table.

“S’all good,” Rodimus says, waving it off. “Nothing to see here.”

Minimus speaks up, optics focused on the table and the data-pad he’s straightening so that it sits directly parallel to the edge, but his voice is earnest, if awkward. “We are… concerned. That Megatron and Optimus’ – relationship. Is hurting you.”

“What?” Rodimus asks, honestly baffled. Minimus and Drift exchange a loaded glance. “No, seriously, mechs. What?”

“Well,” Drift hesitates a moment before pressing on. “Before – before. Megatron and – you. Um…”

Oh. _That._

“It wasn’t like that,” Rodimus says, stiffly, “you know it wasn’t.” Drift and Minimus look sceptical. “ _U_ _gh –_ fine, I’ll say I _thought_ about it. But we never _said_ anything and we never _did_ anything. And he was going to trial. For mass genocide. It was a bad crush all ‘round.”

Minimus raises an optical ridge. That is patently unfair, because his optical ridges are extremely judgemental. He must have practised in a mirror for years to get that good. “That is true, we all knew that,” he says, “and we also know that he changed, is changing, is making amends. We know that his trial is over, and his sentence begun. There are no few mecha aboard this ship who earnestly call Megatron their friend, including myself.”

“I know that, too,” Rodimus sighs exaggeratedly, playing up his grievance in hopes that Drift and Minimus will just let it go. “C’mon. Just let me get over this like a normal mech. Boo-hoo, the guy I had an extremely ill-advised crush on doesn’t like me back, and is in a relationship with another. It’s not the end of the fragging world. There’s no need to stage an intervention, guys.”

“And then there is the subject of Optimus,” Drift interjects.

“Oh, Primus,” Rodimus says.

Drift looks at him directly in the face and says, like it’s not something Rodimus told him and Minimus in confidence years ago, “You told me you had dreams of him.”

Rodimus waves a hand in front of Drift’s face. “These are not the droids you’re looking for.”

“And that the dreams stopped when the Matrix was drained on Luna-1,” Minimus picks up from Drift. “There is no small chance that – according to Brainstorm and Perceptor’s scans of the Matrix – the events of those dreams… actually happened. On some – metaphysical level.” Minimus looks pained to even say it. “There is scientific proof of multiple realities, and of multiple layers to single realities. The Matrix granted access to things beyond the physical.”

“La, la, la, I can’t hear you,” Rodimus says, clamping his hands over his audios as though that’s going to actually help any. He’s not going to think about that, _nope,_ he’s _not._

Drift reaches out, places a hand on Rodimus’ arm, tugging it down from his audio receptor, and says, “Roddy. I’m sorry, but we can’t let you stay in denial forever. You had – _intimate relations._ With Optimus Prime. You spoke to each other, each thinking you were dreaming, and you said things you would never acknowledge awake.”

“Drift, please, have mercy,” Rodimus begs.

“You said that he said he thought fondly of you,” Drift prods. “You told me he _made love_ to you in your dreams, not that he _fragged you.”_

“Minimus, stop him,” Rodimus pleads. Minimus does not, setting his jaw.

“And that he wished that you and him could live together in peace after the war,” Drift says, relentless. “That you two would be a pair of Primes, the only ones who could truly understand that part of each other.”

“You’re a terrible friend,” Rodimus whines.

“And I’ve also noticed that you’re so focused on trying to only look at them when you think they’re not looking,” Drift goes in for the kill, “that you haven’t noticed them doing the same.”

Rodimus blinks, processor blipping for a moment. “What?”

Drift sighs. Minimus doesn’t sigh, but the way he rubs his hand briefly over his optics gives the same impression.

“You three are hopeless,” Drift says. “You need to _talk_ to them, Roddy. And, okay, they’ve not been exactly forthcoming about talking to _you,_ either, but this is getting honestly painful to watch.”

“Drift, I have no idea what you’re saying to me,” Rodimus says, honestly.

“And there’s the denial,” Minimus mutters.

–

So, anyway, that was fun. Rodimus is relieved when Drift and Minimus don’t try to corner him again, though sometimes they give him very pointed looks when their optics catch across the bridge, so even if they aren’t bugging Rodimus about talking to Optimus and Megatron, they clearly haven’t let it go.

Talk to Optimus and Megatron about _what,_ Rodimus doesn’t know. He’s not sure if he wishes to. But the thing Drift said about them watching him when he’s not looking _does_ stay with him, so the next time Rodimus catches Optimus’ optics lingering on him from across the observation deck, he makes sure to stare back, because Rodimus has never backed down from anything in his life, not even a staring contest with Optimus Prime.

Optimus looks away first.

_Success!_ Rodimus isn’t sure what exactly he’s won, but who even cares, he’s…won. Something. The staring contest, obviously, but even Rodimus is not oblivious enough to be unaware that there’s a layer of subtext here. He doesn’t know what the subtext is trying to tell him, but that staring contest was not _just_ a staring contest. See? Rodimus isn’t _always_ dumb, take that, universe.

Still. Now that he’s aware of something going on, Rodimus can’t stop thinking about what it might be. Maybe awkwardness? Like, if Minimus is right and Optimus had interface dreams of Rodimus, and now has to work alongside him whilst also being in a four-million-years-long-coming relationship with his ex-arch-nemesis… well. If Rodimus were in his place, he’d probably be feeling a bit awkward, too.

So clearly Optimus is sometimes watching him and trying to figure out just _what_ it was about Rodimus that had stoked his lust. Like, Rodimus is a _hot_ mech, in more ways than one, he’s well aware of that. But for someone as love-lorn as Optimus was for four million years? What with Rodimus spending most of it being his unruly subordinate, and also _nothing at all like Megatron,_ why? Maybe if Rodimus was silver-grey, or had an arm cannon, or had a deep rumbling voice, or just something in common with Optimus’ long-time fixation, then, yeah, maybe he could understand a quiet lust for someone actually within reach with those features.

But Rodimus has none of those. And, besides, it’s been _months_ aboard the _Lost Light. Years_ since the Matrix broke fully and the dreams stopped. Optimus should definitely have gotten over this by now.

So it can’t be that. Perhaps he’s just watching. Waiting for Rodimus to frag up. Yeah, that makes way more sense. Optimus _knows_ that Rodimus is a chronic, perpetual frag-up, no matter how hard he tries to do better. And now he has Megatron to tell him about all the stuff he missed out on.

Yeah. That’s gotta be it. It’s a lot less nice than the wondering-about-old-interface-dreams theory, because to be honest, as a reasonably attractive mech, Rodimus has experience with mecha awkwardly avoiding his optics randomly because they had a weird dream about him. It’s not malicious, and it’s no biggie. And even though he also has experience with people waiting for him to screw up… that’s a lot harder to accept, because that _is_ generally malicious in nature.

The worst part of it is that Optimus is probably not even doing it in a mean way. Nope. He just knows Rodimus too well, and is being ready to step in if it’s necessary. Somehow, that’s even worse.

The next time Rodimus catches Optimus staring at him, he’s the one who looks away first.

–

About two weeks after Rodimus notices how Optimus is waiting for him to fail, and subsequently begins to recharge poorly, refuel intermittently, and otherwise display all the signs of being under immense stress, Megatron knocks on the door to his office.

“Yes?” Rodimus says at the knock, not looking up from the data-pad he’s trying and failing to read. It’s one of Minimus’ ship status reports, which means it _is_ important to read, even if there are far too many sections dedicated to stuff like the state of the rivets and the efficiency of the sprinklers. That’s just how Minimus is, and Rodimus accepts that.

“Rodimus,” comes Megatron’s voice.

Rodimus looks up, startled. “Megatron!” He drops the data-pad on his desk (sorry, Minimus) and leans back in his chair, flexing his stiff spoiler wings. It feels a little strange to be looking Megatron dead in the optics after so many months of not-quite-meeting-them, but – not bad. “What can I do for you?”

Megatron surprises Rodimus with his next words: “Optimus and myself would like to invite you to join us for the evening meal tonight,” he says, before adding, softer. “We have a few things we’d like to discuss with you.” His red optics meet Rodimus’ very… intensely.

Uh-oh. Here it is. Optimus and Megatron are gonna sit Rodimus down and tell him to stop his weird lingering crush, and they’re not even going to be wrong to ask it. Well, sucks to be them, because Rodimus would like to stop his spark-ache as well, it’s just not happening very fast, and Rodimus can’t do much about that.

“Yeah, okay,” Rodimus says, quietly, schooling his face to be as neutral-gentle as possible when all he actually wants to do is hide his head in his hands and not-cry. He deeply desires to look away, ashamed and frustrated, but he meets Megatron’s optics because Rodimus always throws himself at problems head-on, even when he doesn’t have the slightest clue how to fix them. “What time? Where?”

Megatron gives him the time and place, wishes him a good shift, and walks back out. It’s entirely possible that he doesn’t wish to linger long in Rodimus’ company.

Rodimus watches the door slide shut on his back before surrendering to impulse and thunking his forehead directly onto his desk, a twinge aching from his yellow-gold chevron. Loving someone – loving _two someones –_ who don’t love you back is absolutely fragging _awful._ Like, he’s not about to go completely off the rails like a character in a holo-drama, but he’s certainly got a new understanding for the longing despair that drives such actions. It’s _maddening,_ and it _hurts._

–

They end up in the seldom-used officer’s mess. Most of the limited number of officers aboard the _Lost Light –_ seeing as it’s not exactly a very formally-run vessel – go to either the communal mess or Swerve’s or simply grab their ration and return to their offices (okay, that’s maybe just Minimus, and he’s getting better about that these days). So the three of them are alone in the medium-sized room and actually have a bit of privacy.

Rodimus sits in the booth, his cube in front of him, a little selection of flavouring shavings in the middle in small dishes, and tries not to visibly look like he’s bracing himself for the awkward conversation he knows is coming.

It doesn’t seem to be coming very fast, however. Optimus puts an ungodly amount of copper shavings into his energon, mixes it in with the stirrer under Rodimus and Megatron’s vaguely-horrified optics, and begins to ask after Rodimus’ perspective of some of the _Lost Light’s_ previous misadventures, especially the ones that happened before Megatron was a part of the crew.

The three of them manage to pass over an hour this way; Rodimus allows himself to be prodded into helping carry the conversation, which ends up being filled with a fair bit more teasing and banter than he would have thought possible, mostly due to the never-ending parade of weird shenanigans the _Lost Light_ often finds itself embroiled in. Optimus and Megatron always steer the conversation away to lighter topics whenever some of the more serious incidents get mentioned or touched upon. Rodimus tries not to be thankful for that, since avoiding even thinking about his own screw-ups is too easy a coping mechanism to fall back into, but he doesn’t quite manage it.

Even when the subject of the Functionist Universe, and with it Rodimus and Megatron’s fraught separation and reunion, gets brought up, neither of them take the wide-open opportunity to slide sideways into a _by the way, Rodimus, about you and Megatron…_

It’s – confusing. A bit stressing as well, actually, as time ticks on and they still don’t bring up what Rodimus is getting more and more braced for.

By the end of a couple of hours, the energon is long gone, and the ship’s starting to slide into its early night-cycle. Rodimus has the mid-shift tomorrow, so it’s not like he has to be up early, but despite the surprising ease of his company, he’s getting more and more desperate for them to get the hard part over with so he can escape back to his hab, have whatever emotional breakdown he ends up having, and pick up the pieces in private and glue them back together in some semblance of order before he has to be on the bridge tomorrow.

His fingers play with the edges of his empty cube, but while he’s trying to think of something to say to get this pain-show finally on the road, Megatron goes first by noting, “It’s getting late.”

Optimus makes a hum of surprise, clearly having just checked his internal chronometer. “It is,” he says. Then, after a moment, in a weighted tone of voice, “Rodimus?”

“Yeah?” Rodimus says, forcing himself not to squeeze his optic shutters as tightly closed as they will go. _Here it comes…_

“Would you – would you like to come back to our hab tonight?” Optimus asks, his blue optics intense and focused as he levels them upon Rodimus.

Now, Rodimus is not totally oblivious. He has plenty of experience with being asked for casual interface, and, frag, _that’s what this is._ This was a not-date to butter him up (great human phrase, Rodimus loves it, and once spent a week inserting it into every sentence he could just to see the muted pain on Megatron’s face) into agreeing to a threesome.

He could say _no,_ easily. Could walk away from this, spend a couple days awkwardly avoiding optical contact (not that that’s any different from the last few months) before falling back into normal routine with them. That would be, honestly, the smart, healthy thing to do. Even Rodimus recognises _that._

“Okay,” Rodimus replies, after a stretching moment. “Why not?”

–

They take him back to Megatron’s hab, and, yeah, Rodimus has been in here before, briefly, and more often met Megatron at the doorway and seen inside, but still. It’s a whole different room from the perspective of the large – no, really, it’s _huge_ for a mech Rodimus’ size – berth. Not that he’s on the berth, yet. No, he’s standing at the foot of it, staring up at his much-larger companions for the night-cycle.

_This is such a bad idea,_ Rodimus thinks as Optimus retracts his battle-mask and leans down to kiss him. _Momentously stupid, even for me. I’m just gonna get my spark shattered._ Optimus – like in those long-gone dreams that Rodimus pointedly refuses to acknowledge ever happened – is a great kisser. He nips at Rodimus’ lips, and when they part, slides his glossa in, and Primus send it to the Pit, he even _tastes the same as he did in the dreams._

Megatron is watching them. Rodimus can see him in his peripheral vision. And then he’s gone. Optimus’ glossa licking and exploring his intake distracts Rodimus enough that it’s not until a large pair of hands grip his hip struts from behind as his spoiler wings suddenly send a thousand proximity pings as someone leans their front against Rodimus’ back that he is enlightened as to where Megatron went. Rodimus groans softly at the feeling of being trapped between them, their EM fields drenching him in their lust.

Rodimus’ spoiler wings – and their many sensors – croon at him. Megatron’s pelvic armour – and his interface array underneath – is scraping the middle of Rodimus’ back, just underneath his spoiler wings. The sensors in them can feel the heat underneath, and though he doesn’t have _that_ many chemoreceptors in the wings, he has enough that they can tell him all about the faint traces of lubricant and transfluid pooling behind the armour. That’s – frag. That’s _hot._

And then Optimus is straightening up, leaving Rodimus with nothing but the lingering taste of him and kiss-swollen lips. And – _f_ _raaaggg._ Optimus and Megatron are of a height to each other, and Rodimus is like a third of each of their mass, and now he’s enclosed entirely in their hold, and damn it his interface array is _very_ interested in the state of the proceedings, in how Rodimus is caught between the two of them. They could pluck him up one-handed and spread him out and _have their way with him_ and Rodimus would be entirely at their mercy.

(Okay, look. Rodimus is fully aware that they’d both step back and let him out at nothing more than a word. Likely not even that, if his EM field started getting tinged with discomfort or nervousness. But, frag it, he _likes_ the fantasy, all right? Give him a _break._

Maybe, if he’s good… (and by that Rodimus means _a good lay,_ obviously) they might let him stay – come back! He means come back! Yeah. That’d be nice.

If he shutters his optics and pretends, he can imagine that he’s theirs for more than one night. As more than just a warm, willing frame for them to use.)

Optimus and Megatron lean in over Rodimus’ head and kiss, Optimus placing his hands over Megatron’s hands, and between them they’ve got an unbreakable grip on Rodimus. Rodimus looks up, watches the show – and, frag, it really is a show, they’re _so hot_ like that, biting and licking into each other’s mouths with no shame, almost showing off, really – and Megatron’s pressing into his back and Optimus is pressing into his front, and both of their EM fields are sparking love and lust and pleasure, practically literally, their charge zinging up and down and across the smaller frame they’ve got held captive in the middle of them. It’s a lot, and it still feels like not nearly enough.

They break the kiss, and Rodimus is _sure_ that they can feel the scorching arousal in his own EM field, from the way Megatron smirks down at him, his red optics smouldering in the shadows cast over his face by the half-brightness room and the enclosure he and Optimus are making around Rodimus. Optimus’ smile is less smug, but still very pleased, and unfortunately familiar what with Rodimus having seen it many a time in his recharge years ago, and, _nope,_ still not acknowledging that.

Optimus raises his hands, running them up Rodimus’ sides, trailing fingers sparking with charge over the interlocking panels of Rodimus’ torso, small sparks coruscating over the armour plates. Rodimus moans as Optimus teases his way over his chest, _so close_ to where the spark-chamber is under the armour, but refusing to place his hand fully over that middle area. His touch is not too light, and not too harsh, and frag it, it’s just how Rodimus likes his tactile charge-play to be, how does Optimus _know that?_

“Come _on,”_ Rodimus whines as Optimus’ digits skitter over the red bio-lights lining his waist and thumb at the pulsing circuitry. Megatron chuckles, low and deep, the vibration rumbling through his frame and straight onto Rodimus’ twitching spoiler wings, still pressed up against Megatron’s chest. Rodimus makes a faint whimpering noise as his spoiler wings flex and press back outside of his control. Megatron grips his hips tighter and pulls them back, grinding Rodimus’ aft against his thighs, the burning warmth of his interface panelling above sending Rodimus’ spoiler wing sensors into another bombardment of chemoreceptor reports and proximity pings in Rodimus’ HUD. _“Megatron!”_

“What is it?” Megatron asks, and his voice couldn’t sound any more faux-innocent if it tried. “Is there something you want?”

Rodimus goes to answer, but Megatron’s fingers suddenly sparking with charge that sinks straight through his hip plates and across into his interface array turns the words into a moan. His circuitry aches with the foreign charge, his bio-lights brightening uncontrollably, and then Megatron’s hands – Primus, they’re _so big –_ stroke across his hips, following the line of his thighs down and _in,_ brushing against his pelvic armour almost incidentally, as though such a touch were an accident rather than Megatron being a deliberate fragging _tease._

“I’m sorry,” Megatron says, whispering straight into Rodimus’ audio, and when did he even lean down? “I didn’t quite catch that.”

“You’re a – fraggin’ – _aft,”_ Rodimus gets out, vocaliser wheezing with static, his internal ventilation fans spinning so fast they’re whining.

Megatron laughs lowly, and so does Optimus. “He’s like that all the time,” Optimus tells Rodimus, drawing his fingers down Rodimus’ front, coming to rest them at the line of where Rodimus’ abdominal armour meets his pelvic armour, not even granting the relief of putting any pressure on the part that Rodimus aches for him to touch.

Rodimus bucks his hips into their combined touch, Optimus’ fingers slipping down a little at the movement, Megatron’s sliding farther into the gap Rodimus’ thighs make. Then he groans in frustration as the two of them move their fingers away again to linger on the outskirts of his heated panelling. “Come on,” he repeats. “What do I have to do to get you to touch me?”

The two of them share a look before Megatron says, more seriously, “Do you want this? Want _us? Both_ of us? Because if you don’t, Rodimus, we’re going to stop right here.”

A large part of Rodimus wants to just say _yes_ and get on with having fun, but – when voices turn serious during interface, it’s best to actually take a moment to put thought into your response. Rodimus sucks in a deep vent, pausing in place as he turns the words over – is having _both of them_ really that serious an ask? Rodimus knew he was signing up for a threesome, but, then again, these two _are,_ y’know, _Optimus Prime_ and _Megatron,_ so maybe that question isn’t as unnecessary as one might first assume – before he tells them, “Yes. That’s – I want both of you.”

The two of them – relax isn’t the right word, but maybe their gears loosen a little and their pistons depressurise. Their EM fields take a decidedly contented turn, Megatron’s tinged with some relief, Optimus’ with some light smugness.

“Told you so,” Optimus says to Megatron, who makes a show of rolling his optics before flexing the hand on Rodimus’ inner thigh, letting a spark of charge sink straight into the seam between the thigh socket and the pelvic armour. Rodimus _squeals._

Optimus and Megatron’s hands slide away, Rodimus making a protesting noise that turns immediately into a bitten-off groan as Megatron wraps an arm around his waist, Optimus steps back, and he is lifted up into the air, Megatron turning towards the berth, carrying him effortlessly.

“You want his spike or shall I?” Megatron asks Optimus, Rodimus muting his vocaliser to prevent himself from making an embarrassing noise at that question.

“I get his spike, you get his valve,” Optimus says, reclining on the berth, the upper half of his back leaning against the wall, the recharge station set in it over his right shoulder, “then we’ll swap.” He spreads himself out, his pelvic armour sliding open to reveal his interface array. Then he further transforms away his valve panel, his anterior node a bright and pulsing blue, and Rodimus can see the shine of lubricant already wetting the entrance from up here in Megatron’s arms. His muted vocaliser prevents the wanting noise from actually being spoken, but he’s sure it’s printed all over his face.

Optimus reaches down, presses a couple of fingers against his own node, meeting Rodimus’ optics directly as he spreads his legs slightly farther apart to make room for the way Megatron is lowering Rodimus down between Optimus’ thighs, crowding him into Optimus by pressing up against Rodimus’ back. Trapped between them, again.

Megatron’s hand snakes around to rub directly on Rodimus’ pelvic armour, no longer toying with him, and Rodimus retracts it with a sigh of his vents. “Don’t mute your vocaliser,” Megatron chides as he thumbs the bright red anterior node sat between Rodimus’ two panels, “we want to hear you.”

Well, Rodimus can’t say no to that, can he? He unmutes his vocaliser with a whine as Megatron traces the outside of his spike panel. Rodimus slides it open, and all three of them watch as Rodimus’ spike – burnt orange with red bio-lights trailing up it – pressurises directly into Megatron’s hand, sliding out of its housing. Megatron’s charge-slicked fingers have his touch be exquisitely intense upon the sensor-heavy equipment, and Rodimus trembles and whimpers as Megatron runs his hand up and down it.

Optimus looks on greedily. “Beautiful,” he murmurs. “Bring him up here.”

Megatron lets go of Rodimus’ spike – Rodimus gives a trailing moan of protest – and grips both of Rodimus’ hips in his hands and then he just – lifts him up and onto Optimus, like it’s nothing, like it’s not the hottest kind of manhandling Rodimus has ever had happen to him.

Rodimus’ spike scrapes against Optimus’ abdominal armour before Optimus takes over Megatron’s hold, adjusting Rodimus until he’s situated in the right place, his spike laid against Optimus’ array, that bright blue node casting strange ambience against Rodimus’ own red bio-lights. Optimus takes Rodimus’ spike in hand – frag, it’s such a big hand, just like Megatron’s, it encompasses Rodimus’ spike entirely in its grip – and moves it so that the flared head is resting against Optimus’ valve entrance, the tip just inside. Then Optimus nods to Megatron over Rodimus’ shoulder.

Megatron shoves his whole body weight forward, his hands still on Rodimus’ hip struts, pushing him into Optimus with the unthinking accuracy and force of a tank-former. Rodimus _wails_ as his spike is suddenly sunk up to the hilt in Optimus’ valve, the ridges of the spike scraping against the ridges the calipers of the valve make with blinding bursts of pleasure, forcing them all to open up enough for Rodimus’ spike head to be bumping against the throbbing interior node with a yell from both Optimus and Rodimus.

_Fraaaaggg._ Primus, you definitely _aren’t supposed to do that!_ If the calipers aren’t loosened enough inside a valve, the receiving mech could find themselves with a rather painful injury. On the other hand, what with their relative sizes – read: Rodimus being about a third of Optimus’ mass – Rodimus' spike is hardly going to be of a girth thick enough to _hurt_ Optimus, no matter how little he’s been stretched. It’s just – rough interface, in this instance.

He’s being _used._ Like he’s an interface toy in Megatron’s hands, being used to pleasure Optimus, and it’s – Primus. It’s _hot as hell._

“Frag,” Rodimus pants out when his vocaliser decides it’s capable of making words again. _“Frag.”_

“I’m getting to it,” Megatron says, smugly amused. Optimus chuckles, his valve clamping down wonderfully on Rodimus’ spike, and he places his hands on Rodimus, fingers digging into the seams on the small of Rodimus’ back, pulling him in, keeping him immobile while Megatron shifts behind him, stilling even the instinctual stutters of Rodimus’ hips as his spike tries to move inside the wet valve.

Megatron reaches down, fingering Rodimus’ array from behind, up between his thighs, and – _oh._ Optimus had said that Megatron could have Rodimus’ valve, didn’t he?

Rodimus whimpers as Megatron’s fingers find his brightly-pulsing anterior node, then begin to trace around Rodimus’ valve panel. “Open up,” Megatron says, low, leaning right over to whisper into Rodimus’ left audio, crowding Rodimus somehow even farther into Optimus.

Rodimus swallows some of the excess oral lubricant that has gathered in his mouth, then he opens his valve panel, slick immediately sliding out and coating Megatron’s questing fingers. He whines, tries to buck his hips, but Optimus holds him tight and still as Megatron sinks one of his huge fingers up into his valve as high as it will go.

“He’s going to need a fair bit of stretching,” Megatron says to Optimus over Rodimus’ head, a second finger teasing at the entrance ring to widen it so that it can join the first. “Sit tight.”

“There’s nowhere else I’d rather be,” Optimus answers, leaning down at a somewhat awkward angle to catch Rodimus’ lips in a kiss. “Be careful with our little one. Sometimes he tries to convince you he’s ready before he actually is.”

Rodimus makes a vague noise of protest but it’s kissed away before he can form that noise into actual words. And – and – _fine!_ Rodimus will admit it. Optimus knows that because he has had the full Rodimus experience before in weird Matrix dreams. He _knows_ what Rodimus is like in the berth, knows _what_ Rodimus likes. He wouldn’t be here, so calm and confident, manhandling Rodimus around the way he’s always turned on by, if he didn’t know that it’s exactly what Rodimus wants, what he _needs._

Because Rodimus likes this, he really _does._ He likes being _used_ for pleasure, wrung out beneath the lust of another. He doesn’t like being humiliated, and he doesn’t like being _hurt,_ but being overwhelmed? And having lots of petting and attention and aftercare later? Rodimus is _on_ that, sign him _up._ And Optimus _knows that._ Knows _him._

(Okay, fine. There probably should have been a lot more conversation at the start. A lot more negotiation. But Rodimus _trusts_ Optimus, trusts him because, frag it, if those dreams really were real, then they’re a pair of lovers very experienced with each other. Megatron’s a new factor, but – Rodimus trusts that Optimus will not lead him – them – astray.)

So Optimus knows to run his hands across Rodimus’ spoiler wings as Megatron stretches him open from behind, the lubricant from his valve practically weeping, making a smearing mess in the middle of them. Rodimus is moaning, his wing tips twitching, calipers rippling as Megatron frags him open on his fingers, hips lightly stuttering into the tight clench of Optimus’ valve, not enough to bring any relief to his aching spike.

“Please,” Rodimus whimpers under his breath, static lacing through his voice. “Please, please, please…”

Megatron looks to Optimus.

“How many fingers?” Optimus asks, tugging the tip of one spoiler wing with sparking fingers, Rodimus moaning as all those sensors send feedback flooding straight into his interface array.

“Four,” Megatron answers.

“That’s enough,” Optimus judges. “But lube up your spike before breaching him. He’s – very tight.”

Megatron hums as he removes his fingers from Rodimus’ valve, which squeezes down on nothing in his wake. Rodimus whines at that, but silences when he feels the press of something much larger replace the fingers.

Megatron pushes in slowly – too slowly, if you ask Rodimus, who’s panting and begging between them for _more,_ for _faster,_ and _come on!_ Optimus takes his hands away from Rodimus’ back and spoiler wings to give Megatron room to lean his weight into Rodimus fully, a blazing line of heat down Rodimus’ back, the greater rumbling vibrations of Megatron’s larger frame coursing through Rodimus’ slighter one as Megatron breaches him steadily.

Megatron’s spike is – frag, it must be of about equal size to Optimus’, and Rodimus _knows_ what _that_ feels like. The ridges lining it spread Rodimus open, his valve widening and calipers loosening at the unstoppable, if careful, push. Megatron doesn’t slow down, not once, and Rodimus’ valve is forced to just deal with that and adjust. It’s _exactly_ the kind of rough that Rodimus loves, and Optimus _knows it,_ so he must have told Megatron to do it this way.

The idea of Optimus turning over in their berth to talk Megatron through how to frag Rodimus ‘til he weeps with pleasure is, uh, Rodimus shunts the thought aside because damn it, he wants to enjoy the feeling of Megatron hilting himself inside him. That can be a thought to return to _later._

Megatron’s spike head brushes against Rodimus’ interior node, and, frag, there’s still more of him to go. Rodimus moans desperately as Megatron continues to fill him, pushing in as Rodimus’ valve interior stretches and expands, the many interlocking pieces under the thick mesh loosening to let Megatron impale him fully. Is _impale_ even a sexy word? Rodimus certainly _feels_ like he’s been impaled, struck and caught on Megatron’s spike.

Finally, the entrance ring of Rodimus’ valve is clenching directly against the wide base of Megatron’s spike, feeling the slight catch of the edges of its housing. Rodimus moans at the feeling, pressing his face against Optimus’ chest, feeling the blast of Optimus’ warm vents over his helm.

He can’t move, it’s so much, too much, and it feels _so good._ Megatron and Optimus have him entirely at their mercy, a warm and ready frame to sink their denta into, to _use._

The two of them pause, let him adjust, and finally Rodimus lifts his head up to nod to them. Then. Oh, _then –_ Optimus grips his sides, Megatron’s already gripping his hips, and then the two of them work him back and forth.

Megatron thrusts _in,_ all the ridges catching on every sensor bundle inside of him, his interior node unmissable due to Megatron’s girth, and Rodimus is shoved forward by his weight, his own spike thrusting into Optimus’ tight valve, slick mesh and undulating calipers milking him for all his charge. And then Optimus bucks _back,_ and Rodimus is shoved the other way, his spike catching on the ridges of Optimus’ calipers as it slides partially out, rocking him back into Megatron’s grasp, weight shifting so that he’s more sitting on Megatron’s spike, gravity keeping him full to bursting.

And then they fragging _repeat._

Back and forth and back and forth and _Primus,_ this is _so much,_ and it’s _so good._ Rodimus is helpless between them, quite literally along for the ride. Their EM fields are drowning his in their own pleasure, and the three of them are all merged so there’s a continuous feedback loop zinging through the charged air, the grounding bars set in the berth unable to keep up with clearing the air in their intermittent flashes.

Rodimus is whining, moaning, maybe saying something, but whatever it is he can’t hear it. It’s likely incoherent begging, to be honest. His audios are crackling with how much charge is sweeping through his systems, redundant fuses straight-up _burning out._ Do you know how long it’s been since Rodimus has had such a good interface that he’s burnt fuses? A _fragging long time._

And then Megatron is groaning into his audios, and Optimus is letting out a rumbling engine growl beneath him, and their combined EM fields drag them all into overload simultaneously, in a feat Rodimus was previously sure only existed in porn and not real life.

Megatron’s transfluid is hot and wet and there’s _so much of it,_ it’s filling his valve and forcing it to expand even farther to hold all of it, the sheer girth of his spike preventing it from dripping out. Rodimus can feel the port opening in his valve ceiling, Megatron’s spike jack clicking in, and his sensory feed filtering into Rodimus’ HUD. At the same time, his own spike head is splitting open, spilling out his own transfluid, and catching inside the port in Optimus’ valve ceiling, and then Rodimus has _two_ foreign sensory feeds in his HUD, and, frag, that’s _a lot,_ they’re locked together now, and even just _one_ foreign sensory feed can be enough to knock a mech briefly offline, let alone _two –_

Rodimus’ world blurs away in a wash of heat and light and pleasure.

–

Rodimus is warm. There’s a weight above him, pressing him down, and another below him, and he’s sandwiched between two strong EM fields and there’s the sound of low murmuring voices, and his systems are all sluggish but this doesn’t feel alarming, not at all…

“Is he waking up?” asks one of the voices. Rodimus knows it, he feels, but from where he could not say.

“I think so,” comes another voice, also familiar.

Rodimus onlines his optics. An expanse of red and blue and silver plating meets his gaze and then his memory files come rushing back in. _Optimus._

Which means that behind him, still _inside him,_ is –

“Are you all right?” asks Megatron.

“Hhgnnhh,” Rodimus says. Then he resets his vocaliser and tries again. “…Yeah. I’m good. More than good.”

Megatron shifts slightly behind him, and, oh _Primus,_ that shifts his spike as well, his jack still locked into Rodimus and his sensory feed still scrolling though Rodimus’ HUD.

“How long was I out?” Rodimus asks, his valve over-sensitised in the _best_ way, right on the edge of too much, able to feel every bump and ridge of Megatron’s spike digging into the mesh, catching on the calipers’ own ridges, the intense _fullness_ and the way even the outer armour panels have had to expand slightly to fit him and all his transfluid in. It feels _amazing,_ and Rodimus is reluctant to let Megatron’s jack go if it means that he’s no longer inside Rodimus.

“Only a couple of breems,” Optimus reassures him, stroking Rodimus’ helm with his large hands, supporting him fully. And, Primus, Rodimus’ spike is still in his valve, his own jack still locked into Optimus as well. It aches now, with how much charge is still being drained by the sucking sensor bundles inside, but between the rippling mesh and still leaking lubricant and the fact that Optimus hasn’t unlocked his port so that Rodimus can retract his jack – very telling, all very telling.

Megatron presses a kiss to the back of Rodimus’ helm, between Optimus’ spread fingers. “Someone,” he begins wryly, “forgot to account for the fact that our maximum power output is a lot greater than yours. And that being able to take the excess charge from _one_ of us doesn’t mean that you can take the excess charge of _two.”_

“Worth it,” Rodimus mumbles into Optimus’ front, leaning into their touches, his engine purring.

Megatron snorts, helplessly fond. “A thought to keep in mind for the future,” he says. “It wasn’t the nicest thing at the time, coming up from equalising the lock to find you offline.”

“Sorry,” Optimus says, “it was my fault. I got carried away and over-estimated what you could take.”

“S’fine,” Rodimus says, and it really is, “I liked it. But. Uh. Maybe not when I’ve got first shift or something, yeah?”

Then what Megatron said catches up with him, and he stills in place between them. _A thought to keep in mind for the future._

The two of them make murmurs of agreement, but Rodimus can barely hear them. They want to do this again? Like, frag _yeah,_ Rodimus is definitely down for that, but. Maybe it’s best if a one night stand _stays_ a one night stand. He knows that his stupid dumb spark wouldn’t survive getting strung along in their wake, always reaching and out and grasping briefly what is not his to keep a hold of.

Optimus and Megatron feel the strangeness enter his EM field, and misinterpret it. “Aftercare,” Megatron snaps at Optimus, not aggressively, but urgently. Then, softer to Rodimus, “Unlock your port. Let me out.”

Rodimus whimpers at the thought, wanting to keep feeling them for longer, but does so, still half-caught in that place where he’s something they’re _using,_ and bending to their will is comforting. Megatron strokes his hip plates gently as he shifts his weight back off, dragging his thick spike out of Rodimus’ valve, the ridges catching in small bursts of sensitivity, a swirling mix of transfluid and lubricant sliding out as well, dripping down Rodimus’ thighs and pooling on the soiled berth. The spike head catches on the entrance ring, tugging it lightly out, before Rodimus’ valve cannot hold it any longer, the spike head coming free with an obscene sound, calipers clenching down on nothing as Megatron leaves Rodimus empty and aching.

“Take hold of him,” Optimus says to Megatron. “He won’t close his panels until he’s come up fully.”

Megatron wraps one large arm around Rodimus, coaxing him to lean back into his chest, as Optimus strokes his front and says, “Your jack. Retract your jack, Rodimus.”

Rodimus blinks up at Optimus uncomprehendingly for a moment before the words sink in and he does, finding that at some point in the last couple of minutes, Optimus has unlocked his port. Optimus shifts away when he does so, Rodimus’ spike slipping out of his valve, transfluid spilling again to join the mess. With a gentle hand, Optimus takes hold of the depressurised spike and slides it back inside its housing. The panel is still open, both of Rodimus’ are, but that will have to wait until later.

“The wash-rack,” Optimus murmurs to Megatron. “Sit him in the oil bath. Stroke his helm and spoiler. I’ll clean up in here.”

“Optimus – ” Megatron starts.

“If he’s going to be ours, then you’ll need to learn this, too,” Optimus says. Rodimus catches the words and turns them over and over inside his processor.

“That’s not the problem,” Megatron says, almost offended, by the feel of his EM field, “but what if he feels your absence is akin to abandoning him? You _know_ he has abandonment issues.”

Optimus hesitates. “Together, then,” he concedes.

Megatron picks up Rodimus, swings him into his arms and tucks his head into his neck cables. Rodimus nuzzles in immediately, hearing the sound of Optimus beginning to run the oil bath in the small private wash-rack.

“D’you even use that thing?” he asks, absently. “It’s… you’re a bit big, aren’t you?”

Megatron chuckles. “I am, and so is Optimus. It’s not made for mecha our size.”

“We’ll get you guys one,” Rodimus says. “Next station we visit. I’ll pass it by Minimus, maybe Ratchet. Say it’s for your old mech struts.”

Megatron snorts. “Cheeky as ever, I see,” he says, carrying Rodimus into the wash-rack.

“S’my best trait,” Rodimus says as Megatron lowers him into the warm oil, his frame loosening instantly at it seeps into all his seams.

“What is?” Optimus asks as he comes to kneel beside the tub, dipping his hands into the oil and brushing it up over Rodimus’ spoiler wings.

“His smart mouth,” Megatron answers, kneading his fingers into Rodimus’ neck cables and coaxing them to relax.

“It _is_ a nice mouth,” Optimus tells him conspiratorially. “Just you wait ‘til you see what he can do with it.”

Rodimus feels a bit flattered, actually, but – “Not tonight,” he slurs out.

The two glance down at him. “No,” Optimus agrees, “not tonight.”

The warmth buoys Rodimus up, the reassuring, but non-sexual, touches of Optimus and Megatron grounding him. It takes a couple of breems, but soon reality begins to feel a bit more steady, the world tilting back to its usual orientation. He leaves it another couple of minutes before he says, “I’m good. That’s – I’m good. I can get up.”

Optimus and Megatron lean back, giving Rodimus room to clamber out of the tub. Optimus hands an absorbency cloth over and Rodimus dries his array first – he’ll have to wash it properly later, but not right now – before sliding his panels shut and then re-engaging his pelvic armour.

“The berth?” Optimus offers after Rodimus has patted the worst of the oil off of himself.

“What kind of arrangement is this?” Rodimus asks instead, using the cloth to hide his fidgeting digits. Maybe that’s a little abrupt, but he’d really like to know.

“Rodimus?” Optimus asks, confused.

“Like. What are we doing? What are you two doing? How am I fitting into this?” Rodimus waves a hand around to indicate the three of them squeezed into the small wash-rack.

“Ah,” Megatron says. “We’d like to court you. Make you our third. We are hoping for a – permanent arrangement. If that is not to your liking, we bear you no ill will for walking away. There’s certainly enough history to make this complicated.”

“Oh,” Rodimus says. “I – let me think a moment. Please.”

Primus, it’s everything he wants. It feels too good to be true, so it can’t be. Rodimus knows that lesson well.

“Why?” Rodimus ends up asking. “Why me? You’ve got each other, and that’s – yeah. That’s a long history to just add somebody else into. So what gives?”

Megatron’s mouth twists. “I can only speak for myself,” he says. “But. Our time together on the _Lost Light,_ while we were searching for the Knights of Cybertron… I was changing, trying to be better. And you were there. And – I was cruel, I know I was. But time left its mark and I came to first respect you, then like you, and then desire you. It was unsettling, I’ll admit. I hadn’t ever desired another except Optimus for years, not truly, not with anything more than passing lust. But my fate was uncertain, and you were so much brighter, so much better. Unattainable. I never breathed a word, but. I felt it. And then. Optimus…”

Optimus picks up from Megatron. “I admired your courage right from the start,” he says quietly. “From our – first meeting. It grew, slowly, over time. Bright and tenacious and never afraid to get up in my face. The Matrix liked you. Even when I held it inside my chest, it _liked you._ When you came back a chosen Prime, I wasn’t surprised. You were more worthy than I.”

Rodimus shifts in place. His personal history with Megatron is quite short, all things considered, but with Optimus… “I thought you hated me,” he says quietly. “You always acted disappointed. You placed Megatron as co-captain when – no offense, Megs – he had _no right to be here,_ and _you_ had no right to commandeer my ship.”

Optimus winces. “I made mistakes,” he says. “Big ones. A lot of big ones, especially in recent years. The changing landscape, after so long of war… I didn’t know what to do with it. But that’s nothing but an excuse. I hurt people. I hurt _you._ I was so unbalanced, off-kilter, and – I’m sorry. While you were gone, I built you up in my mind, placed you on a pedestal. You were _another Prime._ And then you made your own mistakes, were not an idol but a _person,_ and I. If you could be wrong, as a Prime, then _I_ could be wrong as well. And, at that point, I couldn’t afford to be _wrong._ So I over-compensated, got harsh, didn’t listen. There’s no good excuse for that, I know, but I promise, if you give me a chance, I’ll try my best for you.”

Rodimus shutters his optics. Vents in. Ex-vents. Unshutters them to look at Optimus directly. “This is the _Lost Light,_ Optimus,” he says, softly. “Everyone gets a second chance here.”

Optimus’ next vent cycle is shaky, and he nods, his EM field twisting between fear and hope. “I’m sorry,” he repeats. “Can you forgive me?”

Rodimus clenches his fingers into the absorbency cloth. “I can,” he says. “Yes – I can. But please don’t do it again.”

Optimus bangs a fist on his chest plate, right over his spark-chamber, the traditional gesture of an oath being made. “I will not,” he vows. Then he adds, “Your on-ship therapist is rather helpful. I’ve found him so, at least.”

Rodimus nods in agreement. “I can never remember his name between sessions, but, yeah. I feel you. He’s been good for everyone.” Primus, where had they even picked up that guy? Rodimus _knows_ he wasn’t on the initial roster, but he’s slid in so well it’s like he’s always been there. “Megatron?”

“He has,” Megatron nods. “And – Rodimus. I’m sorry, too. I _will_ do better, _be_ better.”

Rodimus smiles at him. “Yeah. I know.”

They drift out of the wash-rack and over to the berth. Their mess is still there, of course, but with nothing but a tug Megatron has the high-density foam topper hauled off the berth and down the laundry chute, Optimus pulling another from the storage locker and spreading it. The two of them climb on, settle down, wait. Rodimus hesitates a moment before sliding in between the two of them. They curl in towards him.

“I think I want this,” Rodimus murmurs after a moment. “I want to – try, at least. Primus knows it’s not gonna be easy, none of us are exactly the easiest mechs, but. I want to _try.”_

Optimus presses his lips against Rodimus’ helm, and, wow, isn’t it a strange thought that Rodimus will be one of the very few to see Optimus Prime without his battle-mask on a regular basis? “I can do that,” he answers. “I want to succeed, of course, but this is a three-way project. I can’t make your decisions for you, I can’t _make_ this work out by sheer force of will, but I’ll support you and Megatron as best I can.”

“Our therapist _has_ been good for him,” Megatron mutters into Rodimus’ other audio. “And I promise, too. I’ll work for this _with_ the two of you. I… have learnt my lesson about trying to force people into doing things, feeling things. I want this, and I want you. I’ll give it my best shot.”

“He’s a good shot,” Optimus whispers to Rodimus, who snorts.

“We all are,” Rodimus says to the ceiling, and it’s not even that bitter, the way it could be. “Okay, serious conversation time over. Cuddly recharge time now. I want to get at least a few hours in before I have to look Minimus in the optics on the bridge and be forced to admit to him why I’m walking with a slight hitch.”

“Too rough?” Megatron asks, earnestly concerned.

“No, just well-used,” Rodimus yawns. “Hey. Is morning interface a thing in your household? ‘Cause I distinctly remember something about Megatron getting my spike next.”

Megatron sighs good-naturedly while Optimus laughs. “Insatiable,” he faux-chides.

“You love it,” Rodimus retorts, grinning.

**Author's Note:**

> Look at me, filled with _feelings_ about this ultra-rare pairing. And, yes, that _is_ Rung you saw up there. What? He's a universal constant! Why would he _not_ be able to return to us?
> 
> The Post-Lost Light 25 situation I used here is more fully explored in another fic of mine, [Atonement](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25249054). There's no Optimus Prime in that version, but I am quite proud of it, if I do say so myself.
> 
> The title is from the poem _a note on the body_ by Danez Smith, which can be found [here](https://poets.org/poem/note-body). It's a poem that I have personally decided has strong MegaRod vibes, with the narrator being Megatron and the subject being Rodimus.
> 
> I can also be found on [tumblr](https://stairre.tumblr.com/). Come and say hello!


End file.
